


Of Air and Arrows

by FacetiousKitten



Series: BT Tower Telephone Group F [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Broken Bones, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Wing Grooming, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26690236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FacetiousKitten/pseuds/FacetiousKitten
Summary: While on an assignment from Heaven, Aziraphale is badly injured and stranded.  Who should come along to help but his wily adversary?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: BT Tower Telephone Group F [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937884
Comments: 16
Kudos: 157





	Of Air and Arrows

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Dove and the Raven](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26651266) by [Janara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janara/pseuds/Janara). 



> Written for the BT Tower Telephone Event! I was a member of Group F, and enjoyed it immensely.
> 
> Based on a redacted version of Janara's "The Dove and the Raven," which is linked above in the "Inspired By" section.

Angel wings. Beautiful, graceful. Not built for the Earth, but still well suited for sailing above it.

Demon wings were a pale imitation. Same original stock, sure. However, they were corrupted, foul. Some demons didn’t even have wings anymore; they’d been burned away by the Fall, or atrophied through lack of use in Hell.

Aziraphale had heard that it was cramped down there. Heaven had told him as much, and plenty more, about Hell. He thought about that, lying on the ground, one wing twisted painfully behind him and unable to do anything about it due to the freeze on his miracle allowance. Too many frivolous miracles again. He could snap his fingers all he wanted, but it wouldn’t do any good. There was no magic forthcoming, except for the miracles he’d been assigned to perform – magic and miracles he could only perform in a specific place. A place he couldn’t reach with a damaged wing.

He should have seen it coming. Flying to this small island seemed the quickest, easiest mode of transportation. “Won’t it be nice to stretch my wings,” he said. “Get a bird’s eye view of the area, do a little windsurfing.” The island was supposed to be uninhabited, minus the hermit whom Aziraphale was meant to bless. A hermit who, unbeknownst to Aziraphale, was armed with serious anti-angel weaponry.

“Other angels have attempted to reach him with no success,” said Heaven’s missive. “We trust that Earth’s longest serving angel will have the required expertise to succeed where others have failed.”

Could’ve warned him about the weapons. Might not have flown, in that case.

Aziraphale lifted himself to his elbows, groaning and, much to his chagrin, squeaking in horrific pain. Thanks to a last-second dodge, the arrow hadn’t hit him, but the dodge knocked him far enough afield that he lost the air current. Flapping madly, grappling for balance, he barely avoided the second and third arrows. He was so off-balance, though, that he lost height and… He wasn’t sure what happened next. Treetops factored into events, as did a rock and sand.

Now he was grounded, possibly with a broken wing, and not a drop of magic to spare, not even for healing. An angelic corporation could heal quickly, but the wings? Oh, the wings. They were an extension of an angel’s truest self, and couldn’t heal quickly outside of Heaven.

Above, far above, a vulture circled. Figured. Except…

_That wasn’t a vulture._

Relief and panic warred within him. Relief, because this could mean his rescue. Panic, because this was a new target for the hermit.

When the arrows came, the not-a-vulture spun and twisted with as much grace as any angel. Then, dove in a sickeningly fast spiral. Aziraphale grimaced, unable to watch such a plummet. He braced himself for the sound of impact, but there wasn’t one. Instead, loud flapping, and footsteps in the sand.

“Hi, angel. Spot of trouble?”

Silhouetted against the sun was his hereditary enemy.

“Crowley? Why are you here?”

“On assignment. Opposite of yours, I’d wager.” He cocked his head to the side, gauging Aziraphale’s condition. “What in Satan’s name happened to your wing?”

“Broken, maybe. While working in _God’s_ name.” He didn’t want to get into the _how_ of his condition, and therefore left out the bit about the arrows and the bungled landing.

Crowley crouched down to look more closely at the injured wing. “Why don’t you heal it? No need in rolling around in the sand, in what I assume is incredible pain.”

“I’ve had worse,” Aziraphale said, defensively, thinking of the injury he’d sustained in the great war in Heaven.

“Still no need in- in _this_ , Mister Tough Guy.” Crowley indicated _this_ with a wide gesture at Aziraphale’s corporation. “You’re an angel. Healing’s your whole… thing.”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. Only looked away, embarrassed.

“Another freeze on your account?” Crowley sighed, and reached out. “Mind if I…?”

“Might as well.”

Aziraphale’s eyes drifted shut as a wave of healing magic flowed through his wing. It was warm and tingly, numbing at the source of the break before sealing the crack in the bone. There was something golden and flowery about the sensation.

“Test it,” Crowley said.

Gingerly, Aziraphale raised his wing, stretching it toward the sky. “Perfect.”

“Give them both a good preening, soon. You owe me now, so do as I say.”

“Thank you, but they’re perfectly presentable.” He sat up, glaring.

“Have you seen them lately?”

“Of course!” Aziraphale looked at his wings, as if doing so would prove Crowley wrong, once and for all. He did not accomplish this. “Oh. I suppose they are in rather a state.”

Crowley scoffed. “ _Rather._ ” He pinched one feather between thumb and forefinger, tugging lightly, and then straightened it.

“As if yours are in better condition!”

Stretching out his immaculate wings, Crowley’s expression dared Aziraphale to comment again. He _didn’t_ comment, but he did stare. The feathers, he noticed, weren’t actually black like he’d thought. In the sunlight, he saw that they were a dark, dark gray, shot through with iridescent green and silver.

Crowley pinched another feather, expression softening. “Let me?”

The hermit was on the other side of the island. They had time.

Aziraphale turned his back to Crowley, presenting the huge white wings. Crowley nimbly picked through them, straightening misaligned feathers and removing broken ones. The healing may have felt golden and flowery, but this felt shiny, and like his wings were blooming. It tickled here and there, but in a way that covered him with wave after wave of shivers.

All too soon, the grooming ended.

“There you go,” Crowley said. “All good. Like an angel should be.”

Aziraphale studied his wings, finding no fault in their appearance. “Thank you,” he breathed.

“Don’t say that. Just take better care of them.”

Nodding, Aziraphale asked, “Shall I return the favor?”

Crowley smiled, sweet as honey. “I’ll save it for a rainy day. Sure to need it before long.”

Returning the smile, Aziraphale agreed.


End file.
